Finishing Up Old Business
by JantoJones
Summary: A 72 year-old Illya summoned by Napoleon I order to finish up some of their old U.N.C.L.E. business.
1. Chapter 1

**2005**

It was a call he hadn't been expecting, even though it was from a man with whom he was in regular contact. Many years had passed since Illya Kuryakin had thought he'd left the espionage game and, since he was heading for his mid-seventies, was certain he wouldn't be called back.

He was wrong.

There had been a time in the 1980s when he had been active once again, but that had been short-lived. For the last five years Illya had been enjoying a happy retirement, surrounded by the children and grandchildren he had once thought would never have a chance of existing.

Then the call had come from Napoleon. Illya would never, and could never, deny a request from his oldest and closest friend. Theirs was a friendship forged with fire and blood, and both would always be there for the other; no matter what.

Opening his closet, Illya pulled out a black turtleneck. He had never worn this particular garment, other than to try it on, having bought it on a whim some months previously. It was a much larger size than the ones he had worn in his younger days. Thanks to age, being less active, and his still healthy love of food, his waistline had expanded somewhat.

When Illya had initially tried the garment for size, he had been disappointed not to see the baby-faced, slender blond of his thirties. He'd also been assaulted by a thousand memories, some good, others harrowing, so had decided not to wear it again. That resolve had vanished with Napoleon's call. Somehow, the black turtleneck felt right for today.

After putting on the sweater, along with a pair of black trousers, Illya shrugged on his shoulder holster and retrieved his old special from the locked cabinet beneath his bed. He hadn't needed the weapon for many years but, having once been an extremely prevalent secret agent, he never knew when the ghosts of his past would come looking for retribution. Illya doubted he would be using the weapon but, as was his habit back in the day, he had loaded it with sleep darts. It felt almost like a security blanket and gave him a great sense of security to know it was there; tucked under his arm. He covered the holster with a black jacket, over which he added a trench coat; also black.

Illya could feel his old life begin to stir in his soul. Despite the situation he smiled at the recognition of the adrenaline which was already starting to build up in him. For all the danger and pain he'd experienced during his active service, he couldn't deny that he had thoroughly enjoyed it.

Heading downstairs, he was stopped by his son, a near identical copy of Illya, who had no idea of what his father used to be. Even though Nicholas Kuryakin was himself in law enforcement, and knew of U.N.C.L.E.'s existence, he was ignorant to his father's part in it.

"Where are you going, Dad?" the younger Kuryakin asked.

"I'm going to spend the day with Napoleon, Nick."

Nick knew his father's old friend well. He'd even grown up calling him Uncle Napoleon. He knew him to be a harmless old man, albeit with an eye for the ladies. Nick's father and his friend often met up and, although he would normally accept his explanation, there was something about the older man's demeanour which made him wary. He had very much inherited the Kuryakin suspicion gene.

"Will you be back for dinner?"

"I am not sure," the older Kuryakin said. "I'll call if I'm going to be late. Do Svidanye."

The drive to his destination took Illya a little more than 50 minutes, and it was raining when he arrived. Getting out of the car, which involved more creaks and groans than it would have done forty years previously, he pulled his collar up around his ears and went to meet Napoleon. The other man was standing by the grave of Alexander Waverly.

"Why did my hair go white, while yours merely darkened?" the American asked, as he and his friend embraced in greeting.

"You ask me that at least once a week, Napoleon," Illya chuckled. "Now, why are we visiting the Old Man?"

Napoleon smiled at Illya's use of the epithet they used to use for their boss. They were both old men themselves now, yet the term didn't seem to sit with them as well as it had Mr Waverly.

"The microfilm," he stated simply.

Illya nodded in understanding and acknowledgement. Microfilm was an archaic form of data storage in these modern times, but this particular one held information which wasn't stored on anything else.

"It has been taken?" he asked, scanning the gravestone in front of him.

Shortly before his death, Waverly had transferred compromising details of several high-ranking, worldwide officials onto the microfilm, and destroyed all the source documents. Most of the people mentioned in the files had long since passed away, but they had left traces of themselves, and their deeds, throughout many governments. Schemes they had been involved in still held the power to disrupt the lives of millions.

Napoleon had thought that the film should have been destroyed, but Waverly had insisted that it be kept safe. For all it would be highly dangerous in the wrong hands, it was useful for reining in those who sought a more nefarious path.

"No, it's still here," Napoleon said, in reply to Illya's question. "But it looks as though someone has been searching."

The gravestone was simple and unassuming, and made from grey marble. The words engraved onto it said nothing more than a name, the dates of Alexander Waverly's birth and death, and references to his wife, children, and grandchildren. There was nothing to indicate the importance of the man who rested below.

To an untrained eye, the small marks and scratches on the stone looked like any that would happen over time. Illya, however, could tell they were the marks left by someone seeking a secret compartment.

"What do you propose, my friend?"

"Well, I think we need to destroy the film," Napoleon told him. "I wanted to consult you about it first though."

"I agree," Illya replied. "I understand why Waverly wanted it kept, but I believe it now holds more cons than pros."

Leaning down, Illya traced a finger along the gold-painted engraved letters of the word 'beloved'. With a smooth motion, which belied the decades of inactivity, a whole top of the gravestone slid aside, by about three inches. Napoleon reached into the now visible recess and pulled out a small plastic container from within. After removing the coiled microfilm, he took his lighter out of his pocket. Before he could spark it into life, a man stepped from behind a sizeable angel statue.

He was a tall, dark haired man, with slight oriental features. The exquisitely cut navy suit he wore made the ones Napoleon used to wear look 'off-the-peg'. It seemed that spies were paid a lot more these days; especially the bad guys.

"I shall be taking that, gentlemen," he said calmly, indicating the film with his gun. "It took me a long time to discover its location and, after failing to find it, I knew someone would notice my attempts sooner or later. All I had to do was wait."

Napoleon and Illya gave each other a resigned look. Forty years ago, Illya would have risked injury or death by lunging for the man, while Napoleon burned the film. Being in his seventies meant that would never be an option. For all he was fitter than many men of his age, a broken hip was a very real possibility.

"Everything on this film is extremely out-dated," Napoleon told the gunman. "It's useless to anyone."

"If that was indeed the case, you wouldn't have come for it."

Movement behind the man caught the ex-agents' attentions, but long-standing, and ingrained training meant that neither man reacted to who they saw. This was an even more difficult task for Illya, given that it was his son who was sneaking up on their captor, with his own weapon raised.

Unfortunately, Nick was one of the good guys. Of course, Illya was too, but he wouldn't have alerted the gunman to his presence. Nick was trained to give suspects the chance to give up before shooting them. He called out to the man, who began to swing around in an arc. Illya could see that the man would shoot before Nick would have the chance, so drew his special and brought him down with a sleep dart.

"Wow, Tovarisch!" Napoleon exclaimed. "I hadn't realised your reaction times were still so quick."

"He was about to kill my son," Illya replied, with a shrug.

"Care to explain all this, Dad?" Nick asked, gesturing to the scene before him.

"We have some U.N.C.L.E. business to finish," the older Kuryakin explained.

"U.N.C.L.E.? You were never with them."

"They are the reason your Soviet father came to America in the early 60s." Illya told him. "Now, please give us a moment."

Nick waited as Napoleon lit a flame under microfilm and they all watched as it melted away to almost nothing. When it was done, Illya closed up the top of the gravestone once again.

"Now that this is over, we'll have this man reported for being drunk and disorderly, and then we'll all go for lunch," Illya told his son. "Where Napoleon and I will explain a few things to you, and you can tell me why you followed me."

"Be fair, Illya," Solo interjected. "We were in trouble until Nick showed up. Late, last minute rescues must be a Kuryakin family trait."

"If I remember correctly, moy droog _(my friend)_, it was you who was always late. Why do you think I ended up in medical so often?"

"Because your big mouth didn't know when to stop goading torturers."

The two elderly agents made their way out of the cemetery, bickering about times past the whole way. Nick Kuryakin followed behind them, wondering just what his father was about to reveal himself to have been.


	2. Chapter 2

After ensuring that the sleeping spy in the cemetery was dealt with, it was decided that it would be best to have lunch at Napoleon's apartment. Old habits seemingly died hard, and the thought of discussing U.N.C.L.E. business in public didn't seem right or proper. The three men picked up the food along the way and, before too long, they were all sat around Solo's kitchen table.

"Okay Dad, Napoleon," Nick began, folding his arms in a way Napoleon recognised from the older Kuryakin. "I have questions. Do I get the answers?"

Illya glanced across to Napoleon and, for the briefest moment, the American saw the vulnerable looking young man he'd first met all those years ago. Of course, there had been nothing vulnerable about him, but an expression of innocence sometimes showed when Illya was feeling trapped. This was one of those times.

"Do you remember what I told you about my reasons for moving to America?" Illya asked his son.

"Yeah. An American fashion house saw some talent in your designs. The owner of the company had money and influence and was able to arrange for you to come here, despite it being the height of the cold war."

"Forgive me, Kolya," Illya said, with abject contrition.

Nick frowned. His father rarely used the familiar Russian diminutive of his name; usually reserving it when he was feeling regretful for something. He didn't like the idea that his Dad was not who he thought.

"It was a lie?"

"Yes."

Over the next half hour Illya gave the younger man a potted history of his life from joining the Russian navy to when he was recruited to U.N.C.L.E.

"I was based in Europe for a few years before Mr Waverly brought me to America," he continued. "Although U.N.C.L.E. was, and is, a multinational organisation, I was unsure about the move. When it came right down to it, I would still be a Soviet citizen living amongst the apparent enemy. I was right to be concerned as it turned out."

It was Napoleon's turn to frown. The New York headquarters was naturally staffed with Americans, some of whom, despite working for a global cause, had still despised having a 'commie' in their midst. As a result, Illya had face a torrent of verbal, and even physical abuse. This had only increased when he was partnered with Napoleon.

"I was the 'golden boy'," Napoleon explained. "Next in line to become CEA."

"CEA?"

"Chief Enforcement Agent," Solo told the younger Kuryakin. "The head of Section 2, Operations and Enforcement. A few of the other agents didn't like that a Russian would rank directly under me, and would therefore become the number 3 man in U.N.C.L.E. North West."

"So you were Dad's superior?" Nick asked.

"In rank only," Illya stated quickly, before conceding slightly. "Maybe also in strategizing."

"And just what were you superior in, Tovarisch?" Napoleon demanded.

"Stamina," Illya answered. "Accuracy of aim, agility, languages, and using a French accent, for starters."

"Getting captured?" Solo retorted. "Mouthing off to captors? Getting tortured and beaten? Ending up in medical?"

Illya shrugged dismissively. "I got the job done."

"Very true," Napoleon agreed. "But at what cost?"

The question had been asked with genuine concern and regret. All agents put their lives on the line, but Illya seemed to have had more broken bones, and collected more permanent scars than anyone else he knew.

"It was a price worth paying."

Nick Kuryakin listened to the exchange between the two men. Their tone was jokey, but the subject was absolutely chilling.

"You were tortured?" he asked.

His father was such a gentle, quiet man, it was hard to believe he could be subjected to something so brutal.

"We both were," Illya told him. "Many times."

"For some reason though, your father was a magnet for it," Solo said. "It didn't help that he often drew the attention away from me in some misguided belief he was my bodyguard."

"It wasn't that," Illya replied, forcefully. "Well, maybe at first, but that was merely a hangover from my Soviet training. A superior officer always warranted protection form lower ranks. Later it was about friendship."

Illya hadn't been joking when he claimed to have had more stamina than his partner, and told the other two men as much. Although Napoleon wouldn't have imparted secrets if he could help it, the simple fact was that Illya was physically stronger. Any who had known the two men in their active days would have assumed Napoleon to be the stronger one and, although he was hardly a weakling, Illya surpassed him. As such, the Russian knew he could probably endure physical torture for longer than Napoleon before death claimed them.

"I was just trying to keep my friend alive."

"What kinds of things were done to you?" Nick asked, the shock in his voice all too evident.

Illya took hold of his son's hands and looked him directly in the eye.

"Nicholas Illyich," he began. "There are some things which a child, no matter how old he is, should never know about his father," he said softly. "I endured terrible things as an agent but, all you need to know, is that it was worth it. I was willing to give my life, so I really got away with underpaying."

"How did you do it?" queried Nick, with fear in his voice. "The psychological toll alone must have been enormous."

"Do you recall what I told you about what happened to my family when I was eight years old?" Kuryakin senior questioned, receiving a nod in answer.

When he was young, Nick had only been told that his grandparents and aunts had died in the war. It wasn't until he was in his early twenties that he learned the truth of their terrible fates.

"Well, believe it or not, that strengthened me," Illya explained. "After witnessing such horror, nothing else could ever come close to being as bad. Besides, U. .E. provided psychiatrists should anyone need them."

Napoleon snorted a laugh, earning him a Kuryakin glare. The man was in his seventies, but the Ice Prince still dwelt in those blue eyes.

"There were very few times when you stepped into that office voluntarily," he said. "You only went to medically mandated appointments because you wouldn't be allowed back into the field otherwise."

"I didn't need, nor want, someone wandering through my mind," Illya countered. "Given that I have reached this age with no real issues, I believe I have been proved correct."

Napoleon didn't reply to that. He could have made a crack about the number of times he had picked up the pieces when things had gotten too much for Illya, but he wouldn't. It wouldn't be fair to his friend to disabuse him of the belief that he had always been fine.

"I still don't know why you never mentioned you were U. .E. agents," said Nick. "You must have saved the world hundreds of times, and I didn't know. You're both heroes."

The two former agents looked to one another, then back to the younger man."

"We weren't heroes, Nick," Napoleon told him.

"We were just people doing a job which needed doing," Illya continued. "Someone had to do it, and we had the skills and training required."

Nick was astounded. He knew something of what UN.C.L.E. did, so to hear his Dad say it was just a job which needed doing was amazing to him. Although, he had many friends in various branches of the military, and they seemed to have the same mind-set.

"You may not think it," he said. "But you're both heroes to me. You were a hero to me anyway Dad but, learning your true history has given me yet another reason to be proud of being your son. I just wish you'd told me sooner."

Illya shrugged again. Being a navy officer, a KGB officer, and an agent had meant leading a life of danger and secrecy. His life after had been filled with light and family. Those sides of him were different, and he'd wanted to keep them separate. Now, thanks to business which should have been cleared up long ago, all his lives were merging. In a way, he was glad it was no longer a secret.

"There were many upsides," Napoleon suddenly cut in, hoping to dispel the maudlin mood which was threatening to wash over them."

"Very true," Illya agreed with a smile. "I got to travel the world and try all the cuisines I could."

"I was thinking of all the women."

Illya deployed the patented Kuryakin eye roll.

"You've heard of having a woman in every port?" he said to Nick, who nodded. "Napoleon Solo had a woman on every street in every port."

"Hey, I dispute that," Solo retorted, with wry smile on his face. "I wasn't that prolific."

"Ha! I wouldn't be surprised if there aren't dozens of versions of you scattered all over this planet."

"I was always careful!"

"It depends what you mean by careful," Illya responded. "I'm reluctant to mention Angelique."

Nick watched in wonder as Napoleon's expression softened, and his eyes glazed over. Whoever this Angelique was, she was certainly a happy memory.

"Who's Angelique?"

"Beautiful, blonde, and willing," Solo replied.

"Dangerous, deadly, and the enemy," Illya countered.

"Enemy?!" Nick exclaimed. "You slept with the enemy?"

"It was sometimes necessary," Napoleon argued.

"And it often wasn't," the Russian replied. "I never understood what you saw in her, apart from the obvious."

"Did you ever have relations with enemy women?" queried Nick, of his father.

Illya didn't initially say anything, adopting the mask of indifference he had worn throughout most of his U.N.C.L.E. career.

"As I said, there are some things a child shouldn't know about his father," he said eventually.

The statement caused Napoleon to raise an eyebrow. Admittedly, he hadn't been privy to most of Illya's sex life, but he wouldn't have pegged him for having sex with the enemy. Despite knowing him for over forty years, there were still things which could surprise him about Illya Kuryakin.

"I think I've told you everything you need to know, Nick," Illya said to the younger man. "I hope you can understand why I never told you before. Plus, I don't really want it ti be made public knowledge."

"Why not?"

"As today has demonstrated, those days will never truly be behind us, and we may still have enemies who want to find us."

"You're secret is safe with me, Dad," Nick assured him.


End file.
